


Westfall

by loserless



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: 4th Wall Breaking, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prison, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/F, F/M, Graphic Violence, Hostage Situations, Insanity, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Polyamory, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:11:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7325332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loserless/pseuds/loserless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyler Joseph is a murderer, whether he cares to admit it or not. Josh Dun is an accomplice, a friend who helped another in their time of need. Tianna is a prisoner of those she was slated to protect. And Jenna is missing.</p><p>Three people are swept under the rug as they scour the world in search of a woman who has long since been swept. Fortunately for Tyler, the only help he has is from those who would never - or could never - leave him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Westfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "there's a melody in everything, i'm trying to find a harmony, but nothing seems to work, nothings fits."

The uneven, cobbled floor of the institute made it especially tricky to move delivery carts down the hallways. An irritating rattle nibbled at the eardrums of the guards, and tempted the lobes of the idle prisoners. Heavy, sloth-like footsteps could usually be heard while the cart moved; they drummed out a beat to match the incessant tempo of unstable, wobbling wheels. On rare occasions, one could _just_ make out the sound of gnashing teeth against flavorless chewing gum, or the popping of cramped knuckles, but these sounds were reserved for lucky inmates - the few and far between.

It so happened that _all_ of the prisoners in Cell Block ‘B’ were being treated to the unfamiliar, coveted flavors of fresh meat.

A guard stalked down the damp, vacant hallway, tapping anxiously at the keypad that sat atop the rolling cart. She barely kept her hands on it, only gripping briefly to cease the rolling. Her legs nudged it along as she peered into the individual cells, shuffling little dixie cups around to better organize them. The woman murmured softly to herself, clearly holding a dialogue that wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone outside of her own psyche. The cart was nearing the end of the hall by the time she decided to turn back around. Her little cups of medications were now perfectly in order, making the following moments move much more smoothly.

The opposing dialogue settled itself as she smoothed over her initial anxieties.

Meanwhile, prisoner number 121 was roiling at the introduction of new sounds to his little cubicle. Tiny whispers and mumbles poked holes in the fabric of rattling cart, adding words to the symphony of the pill-time song. He rubbed and tugged at his cheeks and temples, trying to figure out how to better write the unnatural masterpiece. 121 tried not to pay attention to the inner ramblings of his fellow prisoners, but their thoughts were always _too damned **loud.**_ He needed a tranquilizer. Despite the guard being nowhere near his cell, he rose to meet the cell bars, hands clenching tightly at the cold steel.

She didn’t speed up from her meandering pace, however, even though 121 _knew_ she could feel his anxiety. The woman handed each cup to the individual inmates, taking her time to check that they had all swallowed accordingly. It seemed that she was making a valiant attempt to ignore the incessant crowing and roaring of the more unstable convicts.

121 had no trouble ignoring them. He found that it was the things people _didn’t_ say that mattered most. Their vocals were background music, and played very little role in the cacophony of jailbird racket. They were a constant in a world of musical variables. His fingers drummed steadily against the bars to keep beat.

“For you.” “Swallow.” “Open.” “Lift your tongue.” “Thank you.”

“For you.” “Swallow.” “Open.” “Lift your tongue.” “Thank you.”

“For you.” “Swallow.” “Open.” “Lift your tongue.” “Thank you.”

“For you.” “Swallow.” “Open.” “Lift your tongue.” “Thank you.”

Her mantra, despite having very little superficial meaning, could be very deep if viewed in the right way, and 121 _knew_ that _everyone_ would view it as he did when the time came.

The guard’s feet still would not hurry, and he had to keep from groaning so as not to disturb the metronome in his cranium. So many sounds. So many instruments. Not enough musicians to carry out his orchestra. His eyes stung with frustration.

She reached his cell, her eyes now half-lidded with exhaustion and her dialogue having come to a close. He looked complacent enough, and the guard had little qualms with passing him his pills. It was only the abhorrent paling in his fists as he unclenched that made her worry. Still, it was no reason for alarm - especially when the inmate back down the cell block was screeching for the nearest god.

“For you.” “Swallow.” “Open.” “Lift your tongue.” “Thank you.”

121 never let his eyes leave the woman as she continued her rounds on the rest of the hall, content to let his thoughts brew in a pot of unwieldy stew.

He, briefly, resented his narrator for straying from the music-themed imagery. His tongue clicked in annoyance as he reminded himself to kill the omniscient once he got his hands on them, and he _surely_ would.

But he’d have to kill the guard first.

Little did he know that he’d need to make much use of her before she could be eradicated.

**_What does that mean?_** He snarled at the narrator, spit flying from his lips as he his newfound rage moved up into his sinuses.

The narrator could not respond in kind.

_**Is it her? Is that why you’ve come back?**_ 121 continued, practically breaking his own knuckles with the tenseness of his clenched hands. He’d long since abandoned the bars of his cage, turning towards the crude drawings on his wall, hands worrying the worn papers as he searched them for the meaning that threatened to slip away.

_**Is the narrator apart of you, if you mention yourself in third person, or is there a higher narrator?**_ He babbled, fingers tracing the divots in the parchment where he’d once drawn his best friends.

The narrator could not respond in kind.

“Fuck you,” 121 spat, kicking his leg out at the uncomfortable, metal bedframe.

“Prisoner - please refrain from damaging institute property, or it will be removed from your cell,” The guard called into his cubicle as she walked her way back up the hall, having finished the medication rounds.

“Fuck off.”

The woman doesn’t continue the interaction any further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you have enjoyed. Please leave a comment. Thank you.


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